


Don't Even Sing About It (Dreamweaver Makes Me Adore You)

by Chromat1cs



Series: Basingstoke Diaries [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drug Use, Editor!Remus, Flashbacks, M/M, MWPP, Marauders' Era, Mechanic!Sirius, Post Hogwarts AU, Sexual Content, but they make it work, these boys are too stressed, they aren't creative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 11:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12011946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chromat1cs/pseuds/Chromat1cs
Summary: Fogged senses combined with muted preoccupation usually makes a recipe for outright disaster in Sirius' core, but it seems that just a subtle change to the direct company he keeps when he lets himself unspool changes everything.





	Don't Even Sing About It (Dreamweaver Makes Me Adore You)

**Author's Note:**

> Note at the beginning this time! Two things: 1) this fic does contain extensive references to mild drug use, so if that's not something you want to read you can skip this one without missing much plot (a bit of detail about Sirius' burgeoning sexuality in school, nothing else very significant to the AU. It's baaaaasically inexplicit PWP). Fresh updates will be coming soon enough, so I hope you'll look forward to this next one if this isn't your cup if tea! 2) If this IS your cup of tea, I encourage you to listen to the song in the title responsible for the lyrics below. It’s a great aural representation of the high I’ve imagine for this fic/a good high in general, so if you’re interested it’s a great piece of music. Thanks again for reading; you all are the most lovely :>

_You get used to hanging  
_ _If you hang long enough...  
  
_ — The Books, "Don't Even Sing About It," from  _The Lemon of Pink_

_—_

_November 1976_

"Don't go burning it all at once, yeah?"

Sirius feels his cheeks burn crimson as the other student snorts to himself, shaking his head with bitter, arrogant shortness as he turns and walks back toward the spiraling staircase up to the tower. His robes billow subtly in his wake, royal blue slashes of fabric winking out from beneath the heavier autumn overcoat, and as Sirius remains a few more seconds on the open-air bridge where they've met to exchange the small silken pouch for a handful of coins, watching the shock of blonde hair disappear down the corridor, he admonishes himself on the inside for ever having a classroom crush on the boy last year. He's had several "types" over his time at school. It's especially frustrating because all of them put together makes Remus, and Remus is currently at home for a long weekend at a time when Sirius achingly wants him here. 

James is off with Evans for the weekend, Pete is doing whatever it is that Pete does, and the rest of the House has just become obnoxious and useless in their absence and Sirius can't wait to get out but he's also quite terrified of his future and—

Sirius' fingers flex slightly around the softness of the pouch in his palm as he looses a tight sigh. He more than slightly dislikes the drug in the bag—Dreamweaver, a purple herb that burns like simple kindling normally but causes a high when lit instead with Bluebell, described by most as a mellow ride but causes near havoc in Sirius' overactive, worrisome, bullshit brain—but he very much more strongly dislikes the feeling of lonesome aimlessness careening around the pit of his belly right now. Wanting to quell it, owling up to the tower with a promise of a whole galleon to that smug bastard Waverley who he knows has grown it on his windowsill since at least fifth year—makes a fucking _killing_ selling it for far too much and especially around these almost-end-of-term seasons—Sirius had swallowed his pride and now hopes he might have a relaxing time this run round with a spliff of it instead of hallucinating something horrible like the last time he and James tried it at home over the summer. 

_I don't care if it's the West Country, there was a fucking horntail in the woods and I'm never doing that again,_ Sirius remembers insisting, through his nervous walk back to the common room in the inky throws of late-night hallway candlelight. He bites his lip with resigned irony at the fact that "never" apparently meant "only the next time I'm about to explode from my skin in anxious mania."

The Fat Lady swings open with Sirius' spacey mumble of "pumpkin juice," clearly thinking that the judgement in her dramatic and fluttery sigh passes over his head in unknowing, and Sirius doesn't even have enough kick in him right now to jab at her with his usual ribald comment about the cut of her bodice. The common room beyond the shallow steps down to the carpet's plush is blessedly empty—more pre-Christmas holidays, more studying, more attention to a sane sleep schedule, more whatever the fuck it is that Sirius doesn't do as a bloody student—so Sirius throws himself into a sprawl on his favorite sofa in front of the fire and undoes the knot on Waverley's stupid silk pouch with deft fingers while he tries not to think too hard about why he's doing this to himself again. 

The dried flakes of plum-colored leaves within, shriveled and curling in on themselves like a cross between loose tea and tobacco, sprinkle neatly into Sirius' rolling paper as if he were simply making a fresh cigarette. The pouch is still dense with the product when Sirius deems the paper evenly filled and licks the roll shut, and he tries not to let anger rise anew at the bastard's cocky warning of _don't go burning it all at once._ As if he knows Sirius is too much of a nancy to be able to handle it the way the students who smoke it regularly do, as if he knows the heavy doses that blow out pupils and lank up limbs and attenuate the stretch of one's magic into silvery threads of tickly bursts for several hours would drive Sirius mad out of his mind. As if Waverley and every witch and wizard in this fucking castle can see the carefulness at Sirius' core that he tries so hard to cover with suavity and bravado and shitty jokes and has honestly gotten really terrible at keeping up the last couple of months because everything is _difficult_ and things make him _worry_ and it all just—

"Get fucked, Ravenclaw," Sirius says out loud to the empty room and the soft pops of the fire, lighting the tip of his index finger with a little bulb of Bluebell flame and setting it to the roll until it takes. Sirius draws a shallow starting drag until its end glows gold, and with a long exhale he leans back into the arm of the sofa. _No going back now,_ he supposes to himself. He takes a deep full drag of the spicy-sweet smoke, lets it plume from his nose, and hunkers in for what he hopes is a smoke that at the very least won't drive him fucking mad. 

He's three-quarters down through the progress on the drug when it hits him, a slow roll that boils out along his veins in a crawl that moves in time with the beat of his heart. It's a strange-feeling fog thick with stretchy time, and when Sirius turns to look at the fireplace he sees the flames warping pleasantly on their log like feathered breath. He gazes down at the spliff in his hands before finishing it with a last long drag and transfiguring the end with a small second-nature flourish into a paper crane, lets it wheel around the room and down one of the dormitory halls with loopy flapping. It will dissolve in a few seconds, but the odd humor of the weird little creature makes Sirius chuckle to himself. Before he knows it, he's rolled a second dose of the stuff. 

Sirius ruminates quietly on himself, feeling just removed enough from his own body to be able to think somewhat objectively about his general state of existence. His anxiety has been, contrary to everything Sirius was afraid of since he was thirteen and Sure Of All Things, surprisingly more controllable since Narcissa outed him with a defensive shriek in the Great Hall last autumn. Dripping with sticky, cold wax belched forth from a rigged goblet, she had stood on her bench and, in an uncharacteristic bolt of abject rage, amidst the shock and laughter of scores of students, pointed viciously at Sirius across the ranks of tables. 

_Sirius snogs other boys in the west potions closet!_ The accusation had shuddered through him like a bolt of poison, and Narcissa had sneered and continued with more confidence; _He lets them fondle him too, hasn't so much as looked at a girl his whole time here! Sirius Black is bent!_ Churning Sirius' guts like a river of gore, shocked whipped-around eyes and a fresh bed of whispers through the Hall had bolted him to his place while McGonagall had risen to start demanding some semblance of calm. He couldn't hear anything through the roar in his ears, a panic attack rising like magma to his surface that he couldn't even run from and give Narcissa and the rest if her fucking House the pleasureof watching him flee. Sirius had suffered through the rest of the meal in mute rigidity, eating with mechanical precision and ignoring any questions or jabs from the other students. Thank Morgana it was almost exactly a year ago and many students had been away for holiday, thank bloody Morgana most of his friends would only hear of it upon returning like a bad rumor. He could have laughed it off; did he _want_ to laugh it off anymore though? Remus would have questions. James might be angry. _Fuck fucking shit._

Back at the dormitory after choking down dessert, locking himself in the bathroom, it had taken two rounds of violent vomiting and twenty more minutes of laying with his cheek pressed to the cool tile of the floor, staring emptily out the small, high window to come around to it. _I'm bent. I'm Sirius Black and I'm bloody bent, and now everyone knows it._

In truth though it hadn't ruined him to the crumbling rubble it had felt like. Upon waking, rumpled in sheets that felt like breaching heavy, tossed ocean surface, the ubiquitous pit in his chest that felt marginally less awful. Sirius had still avoided telling anyone anything outright after that, reassuming his mantle of aloof charm before he even left the bedroom that day, but something had certainly shifted in him even though he continued to avoid the truth of the subject like a cat avoiding water. At the very least, the whole ordeal helped him dredge up the courage to finally kiss Remus that following spring, and after the summer had passed and ushered in seventh year most of the people who actually mattered had forgotten to make it much of A Thing at all. 

As if on sudden cue, halfway down through this second roll of Dreamweaver and startling Sirius with a couple seconds' delay for his high, Remus Lupin steps through the entry portrait like a fucking dream. 

"Sirius," he exclaims, stark, his eyes wide and hair slightly windswept with his rucksack slung over his shoulder. Sirius catalogues distantly the sweater and jeans he has on for travel instead of Sirius' weekend uniform jumper and trousers, and then wonders with a muzzy smile how the sweater's wool would feel under his fingers. 

"Remus," Sirius replies, curling his legs up to make room on the sofa as he takes another long drag on the Dreamweaver. "Back early?" His voice sounds distant in a resonant, crystalline sort of way. He likes it, wants to make Remus speak again so he can hear how the sounds mingle and dance in the air like their breathing when they're close. 

“I—yeah," Remus says after a bit of a processing pause, "yeah. I wanted to—had to come back before Tuesday, yeah." He rounds the edge of the sofa, still looking distracted, drops his duffel to the floor, sits heavily and stares at the fire with a distracted expression for a moment—elbows on his knees, jaw held tightly, an errant wave of hair obscuring the pale scar above his right ear to which Sirius loves to press his lips when they share a bed. As the light plays off the planes of Remus' face like a spell, Sirius burns the sight of the powerful profile into his memory. 

After several more ticks of silence, Remus inhales lightly and furrows his brow as if noticing the sweetness of the drug's smoke for the first time. He looks sideways at Sirius with a searching gaze for a moment and Sirius can't help but flush under it, more than a bit undone, lost in a glimmer against the impossible moss-green of Remus' eyes. 

"Is that Dreamweaver?" Remus asks plainly. 

"I wanted to see if I still hated it," Sirius replies, his voice feeling soft and rumbly in his chest. 

Remus' shoulders sag marginally with what looks like relief, and his mouth quirks up a bit on one side. "Could I have a bit?"

Sirius balances the rest of his smoke between his lips and dangles the pouch out in front of him like a cat's prize, proffering the rolling papers with his other hand. Remus lets slip another little smile as he reaches forward to take them, and Sirius feels his heart thrum wildly with affection. He watches Remus measure out and roll a tidy but well-packed spliff while he finishes off his own and flicks the end into the fireplace, and Sirius thinks he might burst from contented desire when he stares at the curve of Remus' lips as the other boy's flicker of Bluebell sparks the end like a contented sigh. 

"Cheers?" Sirius asks smoothly, leaning back into the arm of the sofa behind him as Remus shifts to ease his back again his own side. Remus draws deeply before he answers, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment with a motion that makes Sirius think of tall, swaying sweetgrass fields. Remus exhales the lavender-tinged smoke in a slow, thin stream, the column of his neck shifting in languorous perfection as he tips his head back slightly out of heavy relaxation. He only opens his eyes to fix on Sirius when he puts the roll back to his lips to draw again. 

"Home was hard this time," Remus says, terse and honest. Sirius' gut tugs distantly through his mental fog—Remus’ mother has been sick for almost six months now, a slow progression of cancerous pain that Sirius knows Remus tries not think about while he's at school. Last time he returned things had looked better, an easier time of it for his mother adjusting. Now it seems like the slow stumble of debris down the steady, rumbling avalanche of approaching adulthood has started to finally ruck up under Remus' skin. 

"She alright?" Sirius drawls, enjoying quietly the way their shins are meshed together on the sofa. Remus shrugs, a covering-it-up motion that Sirius has seen too many times through nearly seven years of adoration. 

"She's tired," he explains. "Da is handling as much as he can and I'm trying to be there for as many good weekends of mine as I can before exams, but—she’s really, really tired."

The two boys stay silent for several minutes, Remus smoking with quiet voracity and Sirius watching the shadows dance in lovely shapes along the wall to frame Remus in a glow like some sort of demigod. Sirius doesn't know what to say, doesn't ever know what to say since his own mother was essentially a basilisk with a black-haired wig, but he accidentally breaks the silence with a soft sigh, staring with what he halfway knows is near-pathetic devotion. Remus, limbs finally relaxed and legs tangled even closer with Sirius', the seep of the drug growing evident in his widened pupils, chuckles once. 

"What, you ponce," he says softly, toeing at Sirius' knee. 

"I'm happy you're here, I don't like it when you're worried," Sirius replies, the words feeling rich like a dark wine swirling off his tongue. 

"I don't like _being_ worried. This certainly helps," gesturing with the hand holding his dose of Dreamweaver, smoking it with a final draw all the way down to his lips. Remus crushes the end between his fingers and spells away the smudge of grey ashes with a soft incantation and a twist of his wrist, which makes Sirius snicker to himself for some reason. 

"Sorry," Sirius says through his laughter, bubbling out of him like champagne, "I know we were just talking about heavy things but I have to laugh right now."

"Take your time," Remus says with his own small smile. "I'm finished talking about heavy things anyways, and I like seeing you laugh."

Sirius feels himself flush pink and holds Remus' eyes with his own until his spasm of happiness settles into a true, steady thrum of his heart. He should say something; he should tell Remus he loves him. That would be the next logical step, because it's very clear at this moment he at least wants to _hold_ Remus—listen intently to the way the blood is wending through his veins, feel the heat singing off his skin, drown in those eyes, those perfect green eyes.

"Dreamweaver makes me adore you," Sirius blurts in the middle of his own train of thought, unbothered by the suddenness and enjoying the way the proclamation makes his pulse stutter.

"You adore me without the help," Remus retorts, his head thrown back against the sofa arm in his peaceful high. The way the tension in his body has seemed to unspool, the pour of his limbs in painterly relaxation brought on by the drug, Sirius wants to knit himself into Remus veins like oxygen. Nobody else is using the common room, nobody else is coming through any time soon. There isn't anything else Sirius wants to even think of doing in the middle of this manufactured bliss besides reveling in Remus. 

"Kiss me, Rem," Sirius murmurs, feeling his lips tingle faintly with the anticipation of it, the intimate shortness of the incongruous little nickname, reaching forward to rest a hand on Remus' knee and feel every microscopic groove of the denim fabric there. Remus sits up slowly, glancing once around the common room, apparently realizing its full emptiness for the first time. 

"What about interlopers?" he asks, the word long and angular on his tongue, and Sirius tugs him forward with gentle suggestion right behind his knee. 

"None that matter. We can snarl at any rare first- and second-years to make them scamper off."

"Shouldn't we go to our room?" Remus' voice is light when he asks, like the thin cirrus of a low-slung cloud, and although a curling warmth fills Sirius' belly from the bottom up he shakes his head gently.

"I just want to kiss you," he says softly, feather-light, warping and gentle like the flames of the fireplace in front of them, coaxing Remus into a sit as well to perch a hand's breadth apart. "No ulterior destination, no wandering hands." Sirius touches a thumb tenderly to Remus lips, almost utters the softest sound of affection and wonderment at the silken skin there he's matched against his own several times since last spring but hardly enough, never enough to divine the outright miracle of Remus Lupin caring about him. 

"Alright," Remus breathes, _Merlin walking,_ those eyes, his irises are nothing but a thin ring of glimmering green brimming over with contentment and eagerness and a dozen doses of loveliness—

Sirius moves forward in anticipation of his hammer stroke heart's insistence, feels the surface-level sensation of Touch on his mouth before his mind catches up with him and ignites his lazily-burning signal flares of Smell, Taste, Sound, ignoring Sight for his eyelids falling shut to lend its strength to the other four. Sirius flows into the kiss like a decanter, his consciousness bending with liquid softness to fill the space of his ardor.

Sirius doesn't think he'll ever feel such simple ecstasy ever again, and so he absorbs it like sunlight and fosters rows and rows of affection like sunflower seeds.

—

_December 1984_

"We'll burn a bit now and save the rest for later, yeah?"

Dreamweaver is harder to come by in Basingstoke than it was at school, but Sirius had managed to find a measure of it in Peter's shop just outside London earlier in the evening.

_Pete, d'you know what this even is?_ Perusing the shelves, killing the twenty minutes left in Peter's Friday hours before their biweekly pint, Sirius had found several pouches of the drug tucked in alongside several other varieties of dried herbs.

_Sure, it's anti-anxiety. You brew it in tea._ Peter hadn't understood Sirius' laughter, furrowed his brow when Sirius had picked up one of the small bags and wagged it back and forth. 

_'Anti-anxiety' that can give you a smacking high._ And then deadpanned at more of Peter's evident confusion; _You_ smoke _it, Pete. With Bluebell._

_Bastardizing my craft, more like,_ Peter had grumbled, but still accepted Sirius' coin to pocket the Dreamweaver and take it home later to meet Remus through the Floo after a long day's meeting in London. Coming now over the hearth, brushing ashes from his shoulder, Remus grins to see Sirius sprawled on the love seat with the little velvet pouch between his fingers. 

"Bollocks to 'later,' we have all weekend," Remus says with brisk readiness, emptying the contents of his briefcase in tidy piles throughout his desk and hanging his heavy winter coat before leaning over the back of the couch to kiss Sirius' squarely on the forehead. 

"Well then, who rankled your girdle in London," Sirius says through a chuckle, "made you so ready to obliterate your mind?"

"Lockhart," Remus all but growls, vaulting gracefully over the sofa to land in a heap at Sirius' feet on the other end of the cushions. He rakes both hands through his hair and heaves a sigh, sinking into the seat like a thick, dreamy pool. 

"Poor dear," Sirius hums, undoing the pouch and peering into it for the first time since purchasing it. He sniffs at the desiccated little leaves lightly, the sudden strength of the scent shocking his nose, "Fucking hell, Pete," muttered as he draws the rolling papers out of his back pocket.

"Strong?" Remus asks, his voice tinged with jest. 

"Strong," Sirius repeats in the affirmative with his eyebrows twitching to raise shortly in emphasis. 

"Good," Remus says through a long stretch. Sirius barks out a wry laugh, setting to roll two well-filled doses of Dreamweaver. As he licks them shut he glances up to see Remus watching with reigned eagerness, so Sirius tosses him a saucy wink of confidence before lighting both spliffs with short little flares of Bluebell. 

"Cheers to dealing with frustrating prats with beauty, grace, and a fair onslaught of patience," Sirius declaims, passing Remus one of the rolls and drawing deeply on his own.

"And all the barbed edges that come with them," Remus sighs once he exhales his first plume of sweet smoke. He peers down at the drug in his fingers and nods with impressed approval. "Well done, Pete."

Sirius had forgotten to put on a record earlier, too eager to meet Remus directly as he came from the Floo, so the soundtrack to their relaxation is nothing but the knocking of the radiators hissing out their supply of heat and the nighttime sounds through the tight-shut windows from the wintry town outside. 

"Happy early Christmas, Moony," Sirius sighs as he feels the warmth easing into his muscles like ink in water. "We should get a tree soon."

"Only if you finally let me put a dog collar top of it instead of a star." Remus looks lazy with triumph when Sirius laughs, a liquid sound like dark chocolate. 

"Every fucking year with you," Sirius hums, "although I suppose I should be relieved you only vie for it on the tree and not around my neck in bed."

"Because you tend to ask for my grip there instead," Remus replies as he takes a smooth draw from his Dreamweaver, the look he sends to Sirius's side of the sofa fraught with proud mischief. Sirius only smiles, shifts his legs to twist more tenderly against Remus' at the center of the couch, and continues to smoke as the veil of heady softness envelops him readily. 

After more comfortable, quiet minutes they're both done, two more rolls smoked between them, ends spelled into the fireplace ashes or crushed to disappearing detritus between the fingers. Sirius lies delectably comfortable on his side, the rhythmic song of the heating units clicking around in his mind like a dance, his hands gathered in a gentle fold under his head. Remus is spread long as well, and it's his touch on Sirius' ankle that rousts Sirius to twist slowly and look at him with a fuzzy smile. 

"Come over here to me, love," Remus says lightly, his arms open with simple torpor, and Sirius acquiesces with the sleepy movement of heavy limbs and a happy brain. He settles against the warmth of Remus' chest, presses his ear to the top of his sternum to hear the slow beat of his secret warrior's heart and mix it with the sounds already thrumming around the flat so nicely. 

"You have such a beautiful heartbeat," Sirius sighs.

"I'm glad you think so," Remus replies with a tone like honey, golden as a prayer, as he draws twisty little patterns with his right hand on the side of Sirius' ribs. 

"I'm glad you're you, Remus," Sirius' voice almost cracking with its softness, answered immediately by the subtlest uptick in Remus' pulse. Sirius feels his chin tipped up by gentle fingers, guided forward, his eyes falling shut of their own volition when the warmth and sweetness of Remus' lips cover his own. 

Sirius recalls paralleled scraps of memories from their seventh term at school, high as willow trees just like now and tangled simply in the common room to _Kiss me, Rem,_ the request that always felt like the deepest privilege, being granted the permission to field the secrets of Remus' affection with lips and breath and softest tongue. In the middle of their flat now, quiet and as safe as they could feel, Sirius surrenders to gentleness in his spirit and clasps Remus closer. 

Remus' lips have alway felt so impossibly soft, the softest that Sirius can recall on the short list of blokes that he's kissed. Remus' breathing takes on a tightened sort of rhythm when they kiss like this, tending to inhale long and slow before exhaling in almost surprised little puffs of air through his nose and again, and again, and again. Sirius pours his affection out through his own mouth, his lips matching the shape of Remus' like pliant shells smoothed by the tide of years of adoration, harnessing Remus' breath like wind in his sails.

They say nothing in the swirling eddies of this silent perfection, reveling in their twinned presence, their kisses moving slowly, richly, purposeful at every turn and woven silken with the threads of stubborn love. Sirius lets his tongue run sweetly along the seam of Remus' mouth, again as Remus opens to him and responds with a gentle nip to Sirius' bottom lip—easy, almost playful, inviting more variety but not pushing their destination anywhere beyond the quietude of this kiss in the living room. Sirius takes gentle pleasure in wefting through the movements they each takes turns guiding against the other's lips; give and take, lead and beckon, profess and inquire. Wordless bliss. 

After several slow and glorious minutes, they've inevitably shifted from facing one another to Sirius having eased Remus onto his back amid the cushions. The steady rhythm of their kissing still unbroken, Sirius chances a hand down to unbutton two of Remus' shirt buttons and stroke softly along Remus' collarbone. His skin is warmed with ardor beneath his natural heat, and Sirius' fingertips tingle in his mind's fog to do it again and again, tracing a striated and luxurious pattern along one of his favorite patches of Remus' skin as he continues to pass curling, coaxing kisses to Remus like draughts of nectar.

Sirius hardly notices the building demand in Remus' response—a bit more gentle teeth, longer bouts between the barest fractions of separation for breath before diving back in, more pressure at his fingertips where they rest across Sirius' body to bid him forward, onward, more and more to pull him along through the theatre of their lazed pleasure. When he shifts a leg beneath Sirius, his hips twitching upward ever so slightly, Sirius feels his wherewithal stutter as he lets out a surprised and airy sound of encouragement. 

"I love kissing you," Remus whispers, attenuated and slightly hoarse when Sirius pulls back and looks down at him from above—gloriously mussed, his lips reddened and eager, his eyes shadowed with drugged dreaminess and accented by golden arousal. "I love it and I never want to stop. But I'm also going to implode if we don't take it along further."

Sirius glances down at the hasp of Remus' trousers, sees the strain there, feels a flare of blue heat behind his diaphragm at the result he'd not thought to think of through his own mental mist. 

"We don't have to stop," Sirius replies softly, the lacings of a growl attempting escape from his throat tamed down to fluttery expectance instead. He leans down to press the first feather-light kiss beyond Remus' lips to the cords of his neck—taut, gorgeous, coppery to Sirius' tingling eyes—and revels in the repressed groan that susurrates up from Remus' throat. "We never have to stop," Sirius' lips brushing the skin there with each murmured word.

"Never stop then," Remus says on a tremulous breath, his hands on the sides of Sirius' face like a decision, guiding him back down to his mouth to continue their stream of kisses like an ouroboros, swallowing what they give. 

Sirius feels the shifting tension in Remus' limbs beneath him, rippling like the boughs of the most perfect tree in a breeze knit from sighs. His own hands cover every facet of Remus' warmth in a repetitive journey across the isthmus of love between them, caressing and adoring overtop of his rumpled clothing they're both too far-gone to mind for its barrier; on this alternate plane of their shared high, everything is felt regardless. Sirius continues to kiss Remus as if he would crumble away to nothing without the gift of his exhalations, the sustenance of his barely-audible sounds of pleasure, curved overtop of Remus' prone and eager body in possessive wonderment as he kisses him, kisses him, kisses him with dizzying intensity. Sirius' mind has shut out the corner of his own building arousal, intent instead on the hallowed perfection of Remus needing him everywhere, all over, worshipping with lips and teeth and tongue to carry him aloft through the warped delectability of this temporary separation of time from stark reality.

_"Sirius,"_ Remus gasps when his collarbone is peppered with the journey of open-mouthed tracing, the name borne out on his strained tenor winding around Sirius' spine and squeezing with ecstatic want—“Oh, God, love," Remus' voice made of scraps, the rent fabric of riotous craving, his hands shaking slightly where they grip Sirius' waist like iron as Sirius kisses up from the hollow of Remus' throat and teethes softly at his earlobe. 

"You're so perfect," Sirius whispers there, his breath hot as even he can feel it pressed against the height of Remus' jaw. A trembling cry, halfway to words but given over to the nonverbal feast of mind-numbing arousal, tears itself from Remus' throat in response, and Sirius so loves the sound of it that he tongues and kisses at the spot again, again, _again._

Sirius can feel Remus trying to cant his hips into a subtle rhythm now, the heat of his need evident against Sirius' thigh. A small-scale war erupts behind Sirius' closed-tight eyes—shut for the intensity of it all, he needs again to steal stock from one sense to bolster the others to the degree for which he starves—for the briefest second that feels at once like forever and no time at all, and once the fray clears he wants nothing more than to just keep kissing Remus through the lovely, licking flames he can almost feel surrounding them both. He leaves his leg where it lies, near enough to Remus' insistence to bear Sirius' presence but not pressing yet with the active arcs he so blindly seeks. 

"Sirius, please," Remus is panting when Sirius pulls back from another decadent string of kisses to open his eyes and look down at the portrait beneath him, Remus' mental direction addled in several different ways and so he's replied to Sirius' lips with his own through it like an oasis, and now he's nearly begging, _oh Merlin,_ he's so rarely undone like this and it's paradise to see, to hear, to feel, his shirt half-opened and his skin flushed, his irises nothing but the slimmest rings, _mercy,_ he smells of sweet smoke and cinnamon—“Sirius, I want you to touch me, _please."_

Except Sirius is kissing him again, painting the lightened starburst-shaped scar that nicks the dip beside his neck with slow swaths of his tongue, too eager to just _love_ him instead of fuck him; he knows they're exceedingly good at mixing the two into one perfect act, but 17-year-old Sirius said it best with wordless action, admitted in the safety of a warm common room before they really knew What They Were on a night that dissolved beautifully into just kissing until they could hardly breathe and finally fell asleep wound up in one another's limbs. Now, Remus can do whatever he wants for himself but Sirius has only zeroed in on letting his searching mouth do all his own talking across Remus' skin.

Remus' breath steepens into hitched jags of effort, his head tossed back and to the side with graceful abandon as he moves against Sirius. Sirius gives him the allowance of sliding his hands up under Remus' shirt, capturing the eager and shocked hiss with his lips as he holds them closer, nearer, warmer. Remus' own arms fly up to lock around the back of Sirius' neck to hold him fast, a fixed point in swirling, drugged time as he desperately claws out for release. Sirius strokes his thumbs over Remus' chest and revels in the unwound sound it causes, the sort of sound Remus can't hold back anymore. 

"You're so _perfect,"_ Sirius repeats, their foreheads pressed together, leveling their heavy-lidded, blown-out gazes at one another as Remus' brow twists in feeble strain. 

"I'm so close," he gasps, the glaze over his eyes shining with a heady mix of Want and Need.

"You're everything," Sirius murmurs, his eyes not leaving Remus' but fluttering shut for a blessed second when Remus presses himself up with a sound just short of desperate.

"Sirius, I'm _so close,"_ the words barely out above a puff of breath, dissolving in space between their lips like a moth wing. Sirius feels Remus' mouth open up against his with his last tender kiss and Sirius loves him so deeply, so wholly in that echoing moment, and so he reaches down between them to press an ardent palm to the straining length of Remus' trousers. 

Remus arches up, tugging again Sirius like driftwood in the Atlantic, and tenses with a rushing intake of air that catches at the height of his throat. But the first rich pulse of his release spills forth as he comes—Sirius feels it beneath the fabric with a mix of sharp lust and pride—and Remus' voice finds itself again to break out with the most beautiful tones of relief that Sirius has ever heard. Remus rides out three more waves of suppuration, each one pushing him into Sirius' as if they had truly been fucking, and Sirius lets himself absorb the perfect sight of it; Remus undone, unfettered, completely fractured by bliss at the behest of Sirius' own insistent kisses. 

Spent, Remus collects himself for several long moments where he lies. Thin traces of sweat have sprung up on his temples and the crowns of his shoulders, and Sirius kisses each point gently as Remus chuckles with airy exhaustion. 

"You were right, you're always right," he says, the words raw with refraction. "Give me a moment and I'll bite back with what _I_ want on _you."_

"Right about what?" Sirius asks gently, unable to stop the half-chuckle on its way past the small smile on his lips, taken completely by the loveliness of the sight beneath him. 

"Dreamweaver makes me adore you," Remus hums, and when he pulls Sirius down the couple of inches left between them for a kiss, Sirius feels his heart billow full with a gust of blessed eternity.

 

_—fin—_


End file.
